Breaking Point
by QuintossentialGray
Summary: Volume 4 AU. The secret has been out, Nathan is the president-elect. A horrendous plane crash changed the lives of Peter, Nathan, Mohinder, and Sylar forever. Warning for some spoilers, violence, language, smut to come.
1. Protege

One of the most distinct markers that fall had come could be found not on the branches of the trees themselves, but nestled in heaps on the ground below. Brightly colored leaves of so many rich hues of maroon, red-orange, pale yellow with flecks of the healthy green still clinging on—were fighting the inevitable change of the season as the air grew colder with each passing day. A change that was hardly more apparent than on the East coast. A black Dodge van pulled up about a block away from Stevens High School in Claremont, New Hampshire. The man within took a moment as he sat there, exhausted but wired with adrenaline. Another sleepless night met him the day before, filled with vague flashes of faces and snippets of those faces screaming in terror as a dull siren blared—warning of the impending impact that always ended every nightmare with his bolting upright and panting. A cold, fear-sweat clung to pale skin and soaked the sheets and mattress of yet another motel bed. The man exited the van, black ski mask pulled over his features, and black sunglasses shielded his eyes to complete the ensemble of a SWAT team officer.

The very same swat officer whose blood-spattered body lay splayed out in the back of the vehicle, stripped and exanimate. A door swung open and with ease, the man jumped out. Heavy black combat boots crunched errant dead leaves when they hit the pavement. A newly-acquired Dell tough-book was clenched in his gloved fingers by the sturdy handle while he walked off toward the school itself. The true SWAT officer had been carefully observed then taken out at the opportune moment. The tall imposter strode to where the lead on this particular Op. was waiting. Whispering a few words into the man's ear then stepping back. They were ready to go in and obtain their target: Luke Campbell—a seventeen year-old student at Stevens High who was wanted in connection with the grotesque murder of the school's guidance counselor, Phil Roland. As recently as one year ago, a SWAT team wouldn't have been the way that this boy would be pulled out of class. But so much had changed in that time.

A quick check of the cracked watch on his wrist revealed that it was time to move in. Silently, he signaled with his hand for the three other men to move, and they all took their positions. It used to be common practice for the teachers and faculty to be forewarned that a raid was taking place. But after too many incidents with those men and women sympathizing with the targets—it was deemed that going in cold was the best route, much more efficient. One man was sent in to get a camera functioning for surveillance of the intended room. Once that was established, the team would move in and capture the special, subduing him, and prepping him/her for transport to the nearest detainment facility for interrogation.

Luke's homeroom was chosen as the best place to grab him and so the men waited in the empty halls until given a proper signal. The door flung open and two of the men went in, a third followed along with the imposter. Guns were aimed as a precaution because…there was no true way of knowing if another special was hiding in their midst. As the third man went toward the average-sized brunette sitting in the back corner of the room—the door swung shut and locked instantly.

A collective gasp and then the lights went out, plunging the window-less classroom into darkness. A shrill scream was heard as chairs screeched and desks shifted, dragging noisily on the floor. But what cut through the sound was a series of grunts, thuds and gurgling gasps. The sounds of bodies falling to the floor in a heap as a strong hand roughly forced Luke Campbell's face right into the wall next to him, dazing him easily. That made it much easier to quickly inject the sedative into the side of his neck. The darkness of the room was replaced by the darkness of the insides of his eyelids as he was forced unconscious. Luke's body landed, however, on the man who had forced that sedated state. Easily, the tall man lifted the boy onto his shoulder and hauled him out of the room. The door swiftly opening up and then slamming shut, locked behind them. The tall man strode down the hall leaving carefully controlled carnage in his wake and a room full of terrified students as he moved at a brisk, determined pace leaving the building behind.

A recent encounter with a technopath led him to the creation of the deceptively simple-looking sunglasses he now took off in a fluid motion of his arm. The lenses fitted with night-vision capability, leaving the three other SWAT team members open prey once he'd blown the lights out with a single thought. He folded them and fit them into a pocket on his black utility jacket. Next, when he was outside of the building, he moved to wrap his arm around Luke's back to help steady him against his own body. His free hand slipped underneath the bottom of the soft knitted material of his ski-mask, finger grasping it and yanking it all the way up and over his head with a gasp. His thick dark strands of hair were spastic from its removal , and slightly dampened by their own natural oils. With Luke on his shoulder still, he confidently made his way back to the team leader of the op, coming up to him from behind as the man frantically yelled into his earpiece.

"Is anyone there?! What the Hell happened…Repeat, is anyone on the frequency?"

A black glove adjusted his own earpiece as he stood not a few feet away from the op leader. Speaking in a put-on of panicky, rushed sentences.

"Th-this is Sergeant Hanson…Sir it was a-a bloodbath! The lights went out and…I barely got out with my life. We were infiltrated…the target has been apprehended."

As the Op. leader listened he realized how close-sounding the voice was, he suddenly felt a tug on his belt as the firearm he was packing released itself and was flung across the grounds of the campus. Knocking into a tree and landing in a pile of fire-orange leaves—sent up into the air in a bright flash then they settled back down into a small pile on the ground. When he whipped his body around because there was _no _Sergeant Hanson on his team, the man was met with a Dell tough-book right to the face, knocking him out cold and getting spatters of blood all over the laptop's protective case.

After the man's body landed on the ground with a dull thud, the man who had viciously assaulted him leaned forward. Sylar tilted his head, regarding him for a moment—debating whether he should live or die. It was decided while he walked away, hauling the young man on his shoulder still, that leaving someone alive to report back what had gone so wrong was the right move. Let them know that not only had he survived…but he was readying his counter-strike. Sylar moved back to the black van, opening the back and he smirked when he pulled out the body of the former SWAT team member and replaced it with the unconscious form of Luke Campbell. He closed and locked the vehicle then climbed back in and exited the scene.

A dull hum was the first thing that Luke could recognize as he slowly lifted his head. It felt twice as heavy as it should, and fuzzy. His thoughts couldn't quite come to the surface as his limbs pulled against restraints. Duct-tape to be more specific and its presence made his eyes open a little more as he stared down at his bound wrists. There was no outward show of panic as he regarded the tape on his wrists. Luke glanced up at his surroundings, some sort of motel room. Two double beds, one small table with two chairs, and a tiny adjacent bathroom. Then his eyes rested on the black-clad man who sat on one of the beds. A black ski mask on his face but nothing covering a pair of focused, nearly-black eyes.

"I'm not…in one of those cells I've read so much about, what gives?"

From the moment the men with guns entered his homeroom, Luke knew who exactly they were after. He made no attempt to hide Mr. Roland's remains when he was done with him—that man must have had very up to date dental records if they came for him this fast. The silent man slowly arched a dark brow. This kid was…not afraid and that was an extremely intriguing development.

"I don't work for him. You did it, didn't you? Murdered that man…"

Luke shifted in the tape and the very shadow of a smile was on his face when he spoke.

"Maybe…The last thing I needed was that man preaching to me about my life not having a 'direction'. He didn't know me. "

Sylar leaned forward, ah the undeserved arrogance of youth. He stood up and walked over to the young man.

"But you know that it doesn't—have direction. Purpose. Something to look forward to, or work towards. You're unfocused, Luke."

It was the absolute sureness in the way that this stranger spoke about him that gave Luke a minor moment of pause. But that moment passed quickly as the silver bands of duct tape on his wrists began to melt from his skin. The sudden crackling, popping sound of the duct tape literally being fried made Sylar move closer to the boy. He was absolutely fascinated watching it, it was similar to Zane Taylor's ability but as he got close enough, he realized that there was an incredible amount of heat involved as well. Something he became well acquainted with as the heat seemed to be transferring over from Luke and to Sylar himself. When he looked down again, the young man's eyes were wide while they watched Sylar's sleeve melt away, skin started to rise and burst in tiny bubbles that soon spread over his then-bare arms.

"You sound like him…that I don't have any goals, well I do right now. To watch you fry…"

What Luke Campbell's ability entailed was the capability to emit beams of micro-wave energy. Concentrated heat that could virtually obliterate an object, in this case a person, in minutes or seconds depending on the strength of the waves used. With Sylar, he took it slow at first, skin melting away and revealing tendons of muscle, and the very slightest hints of bone. Luke watched with an emotionally detached awe at the dissolution of the human body. Unlike Mr. Roland, this man could certainly give voice to the process as a guttural, growling scream echoed throughout the room. After he was just a pile of…remains, Luke stopped sending any more waves out. He slowly stood up and dusted off his brown corduroy pants. He wondered vaguely if his parents were the ones who reported him—they never did understand that he was old enough to handle himself and didn't need their wrongly-placed concern. As Luke moved across the room and set his hand on the knob, he was taken aback at the fact that the door would not budge. A couple quick shakes of the knob, and it really felt like it was stuck-tight.

"What the Hell…"

Before he could finish that thought, Luke found himself flung across the room, his body slammed roughly against the wall. The wind knocked right out of him as he coughed and gasped, blinking quickly then looking over to see an immensely grotesque sight.

Sylar's skin-less hand, fresh tendons sewn over vulnerable bone, was out in front of the rest of his slowly reforming body. Scraps of the SWAT uniform clung to newly-formed flesh as he slowly stood up, keeping the boy in place. The mask that once covered all but his eyes was gone completely and now Luke could truly begin to see the face of his captor and assailant. And while it wasn't one that he knew, it suddenly gave Luke a stronger sense that maybe he couldn't be the one in control here. Blood continued to rush and flow into Sylar's face and out to his other limbs as he walked over.

"I believe you'll find that what was easily a quick-fix way to avoid confrontation may work with others but it's not going to with me. I meant what I said about your lack of purpose—there is a potential there but you need to have such a wonderful skill honed so that it will become the force to be reckoned with that it deserves to be. And if you'll let me…I can help you. You can help me. I won't lie to you and say there isn't any sort of danger in it, because there is. You're a wanted man now Luke…and so am I. But Nathan Petrelli—"

Sylar's jaw tensed a little after saying the name. One single name that was the reason behind so much of his own misery from the lost months of his life, and one that could strike fear into the hearts of other specials like himself. Of course the exact depths of Nathan's betrayals were much deeper than Sylar could recall at that time.

"—can be stopped. So…are you with me on this?"

Because if he wasn't, then Sylar had absolutely no problem with making a quick slice and putting that power into his own capable hands. However, he knew that at least having someone else to throw into the line of fire, should the time come was a smarter tactical move to make. When he'd intercepted the file from the database in D.C. two weeks back, Sylar took a special interest in this boy. They shared a very similar upbringing and Luke had an openness to engage in the use of his gift that one didn't find often even before the laws were created and on their way to approval.

Luke listened carefully to the man who was clearly like him. They both had breached the laws of physics and some would surely say of God as well. At this point, he could only take the chance and agree with the offer—he couldn't go back out there alone and risk being found and detained.

"Yeah…I'm with you. I'm glad that someone out there seems to want to take care of the problem in Washington. Um…you can let me down now, really."

Sylar smirked and lowered his hand, Luke falling off the wall and nearly onto his face until he caught his balance at the last moment. His eyes met those of the man, standing there rather unabashedly scantily clad from the waist up where he suffered the brunt of the attack earlier. Luke crossed one arm over his stomach, scratching his other arm idly, nervously.

"So…you never told me your name."

Another flash hit him, a screeching grinding sound filled the air until what could be heard through it was that normally steady cultured lilt of Mohinder Suresh screaming his name. The last thing he could remember before it all went black. He came back out of the memory and looked again at the young man, smirking gently.

"Gabriel."

He'd seen the tape seven times and was in the middle of the eighth when Nathan angrily stood up. Pacing the Oval Office, with his arms wrapped tightly around his middle—how could this have happened? One simple acquisition. He'd lost four good men in the process as well as the target himself, and now he was watching the surveillance tape that had been run through a night-vision filter. A masked figure slaughtered easily, some of the country's very best. Such an affront to his nascent administration could not be taken lightly as Nathan reached over and picked up the phone from his polished mahogany desk. He spoke with his assistant briefly then waited behind his desk.

Three minutes later, Lieutenant Stevens walked in, his face was marred with contusions and cuts from the injury suffered by the mysterious man. He walked in and stood in front of the President-elect's desk.

"Stevens…you said you saw something before you incurred your injury. Any information you have in this matter could possibly make up for your complete inadequacy. "

Nathan leaned forward expectantly as Stevens looked down while he spoke.

"Yes Sir. Before the uh—incident, I saw the man's face who slaughtered my men. I'm not quite sure how to go about telling you this Mr. President but…it's your brother."

Nathan looked right up into the man's eyes, his heart stung at that thought. He'd always suspected but could it actually be that Peter was alive?

"My brother Peter? He committed this attack?"

Lt. Stevens met Nathan's shocked glance and slowly shook his head.

"No Sir…your _other_ brother…"


	2. Chance Encounters

Chapter 2

After all of the drama at Pinehearst, Mohinder wanted nothing more than to try and resume some semblance of normal. Unfortunately, that meant leaving behind the single constant of the young geneticist's life—his research. Only his most important files were saved in a chocolate-brown file box stashed under the floorboards of his closet. Suresh had also left behind his father's former apartment, there were just too many negative memories there. Not to mention of course, that Matthew still lived there. He and Mohinder had grown apart in the months since they began to share that apartment and share the parenting duties of Molly Walker. The girl was now safely away in Madras with Mohinder's mother. Mohinder's only recent contact with his former life came in the form of a very familiar face. Suresh was at the corner of Lexington and 67th when a man in a long khaki-colored trench entered his cab. His hair was longer than it had been when Mohinder last saw this man, and he'd grown some facial hair as well. It made him look every ounce the boy he remembered nearly two years ago as well as a man that he didn't know at all. Peter had a very determined look on his face, he was focused. Not at all the dreamer who lazed in the backseat behind dark sunglasses—staring at the eclipsed orb of the sun with a near-childlike fascination and wonder, who had no concept of what his life was to become but knew it could be something special.

Peter was recognized by Mohinder before he himself realized who drove the unassuming cab he chose to step into on that gray afternoon. When he did see that it was Mohinder driving the cab, and the other man had recognized him as well—Peter could feel a palpable moment of tension in that confined space. After all, the last time they saw each other it would be fair to say that the situation was tense—hostile even, but Mohinder spoke softly to break the silence in an effort to reinforce normal. What happened before wasn't going to matter.

"Where to, my friend?"

The very lightest of white scars could be made out on Peter's cheekbone, likely from the cut that Mohinder remembered seeing Peter with when they last met. Seemed the boy couldn't heal any longer. Peter rattled off the address of one of the three homes that the Petrelli family owned on this coast. It was his hope that he could force a meeting with his older brother…that this could all be stopped still. Three months had passed since he saved Nathan's life and they had not spoken a word since Nathan uttered out 'that's not what I would have done' and broke Peter's heart. Then he started hearing about disappearances in the night--what Nathan and his mother were involved in. For blocks, the cab remained quiet except for the soft rumble of the vehicle as it moved toward its destination. Peter thought about Mohinder being in the same occupation that he was in when the two men first met. It provided a sense of calm reassurance that they both were seeking out a return to ordinary lives. That maybe the things they'd done that were regrettable or were mistakes made out of flights of passion and misdirected determination—maybe these things could be forgiven and one day forgotten. A slight smile creased Peter's lips while he thought back on the day he and Suresh met. It was the type of meeting that two people who became friends would look back on fondly as they lived their normal lives. It was with that idea in his mind that Peter reiterated the words he said to Mohinder on the first day the sun disappeared.

"Do you ever get the feeling that you were meant to do something…extraordinary?"

The slightest scoffing breath was exhaled from Peter's lips after he spoke, deep brown eyes met a pair not unlike his own. Though Mohinder's held a more golden tint to them in the light of the sun as it disappeared for another day behind an endless, stark horizon of skyscrapers and high-rises. Mohinder looked at Peter for a good long moment before he responded with a derisive smirk of his own.

"I used to. Turns out I was mistaken."

Peter nodded in the backseat, he agreed fully with the sentiment. The cab rolled into a right turn as they neared the younger man's destination. With each block the quality of housing increased from apartment complexes to brownstones and townhouses. The conversation continued as Mohinder remembered the simple joy that could be found in engaging in small talk.

"What are you doing with yourself these days Peter? I mean since you're not out saving the world."

He shook his head a little, dark curls bounced against the shoulders of his jacket.

"Actually I'm an EMT for the city. A friend of mine from Med. School helped me get the job. It's nice, I like it—it feels good to be able to help people with my current um, capabilities. What about you, Mohinder? Just driving a cab again?"

"Well that's still very noble of you Peter and yes, I've been back at this for a couple weeks now. Unfortunately, it's the only job experience I have in the States. Well, that I would care to mention on an application. I've put my former work aside—my research, as much as I wanted for it to have a noble purpose. It just never worked out that way. As well as it not being safe to engage in, as we've both seen how easily mine and my father's research can be perverted by the misuse of others."

Outside they arrived at Peter's destination—the brownstone where he had spent a good portion of his life when living directly in the city. He craned his neck to look up at it, and though he couldn't see him—everything inside of the young man burned with the knowledge that Nathan was in there right now. Peter reached inside of his jacket for his cash.

"I mean yeah I can see why you would make that decision…Well, I um have to go before he leaves. Thanks for the ride Mohinder, what do I owe you?"

Suresh didn't look at Peter through the rearview mirror as he had been the whole ride so far, he parked the car and turned around as fully as he could in the seat to look at him directly. A warm smile creased his lips while the younger man continued to fumble with folded up bills and random pieces of change in his hand. Mohinder waved his hand dismissively at the gesture.

"Peter after all we've been through your money is no good here. The ride is on me this time."

Peter's hand stopped trying to pull out a couple of bills and instead re-folded them to go back into his pocket. That familiar crooked grin present while he nodded at Mohinder and unbuckled his seat belt.

"Thanks, um so I know you said that you're not doing your research anymore but maybe you should know something, Mohinder."

He leaned forward, every word whispered out as only one other person knew this secret.

"I can fly again."

Peter looked at him for a few moments as the words and their implications sunk in for Suresh. The formula worked—but Mohinder knew that. He knew it very well as he retained an ability of his own and hadn't told a soul. Such temptation sat in his backseat, a chance to delve back into the work. But he wouldn't take it, he could not. It wasn't something that he was meant to trifle with.

"I see. I'm glad for you Peter, but I hope you don't fall back into old habits either."

Old habits like trying to make his brother understand what he was doing was wrong. Peter smiled grimly and nodded.

"Let me give you my number, I'd like to see you again Mohinder."

Peter reached into his jacket and took out his cell phone, trading numbers with Mohinder then putting it back into his pocket. Mohinder placed his phone in a small area underneath his meter. Another glance at the brownstone, it had to be something to do with his family, the very look of the place screamed 'Petrelli'. Peter left the taxi that day and walked up to the front step—he disappeared behind the door and Suresh drove off to find his next fare. No one needed to know that the serum had affected Mohinder as well, because _that_ wasn't part of what he wanted to achieve: normal.

A few weeks later and Mohinder had still not heard back from Peter. This shift wasn't very productive in terms of finding fares, he drove around almost aimlessly searching for someone who needed a ride. His eyes were strained and tired from staring at the road for so long—pavement softly lit only by the beams of the headlights. It would have made sense to just take the cab back to the station and call it a night. At this rate, he was losing money on fuel by continuing, but just then he spotted on the corner of 54th and Bismarck Ave. a lone figure—hand raised in the sky to signal he was the fare that Mohinder was looking for. Suresh passed through the stoplight and pulled up against the curb. The stranger shifted then moved to get inside the cab, into the backseat. Sounds of fabric rustling against fabric as the passenger slid onto the seat while Mohinder adjusted his mirror. The angle of a streetlight would have provided for a very limited view of his new passenger. However, out in this particular area, there were no streetlights to be found and the man in the backseat remained enrobed in shadow.

Mohinder leaned forward and shifted the taxi into 'drive' again as he spoke.

"Where to, my friend?"

A soft click echoed dully throughout the vehicle—every lock clicked simultaneously into place. When Mohinder went to press the accelerator, he found that only the sound of an engine revving up was the result. His eyes averted to the shifter, placed firmly back in 'park' but not by his own hand. Technically, not by anyone's hand.

"What the—"

Mohinder attempted to press the shift back into drive but the smooth gray lever would not budge. Tiny black hairs stood on-end on the back of Mohinder's neck before he even heard the smooth, arrogant voice that still haunted the occasional bad dream.

"What's the rush Mohinder? I think you and I have well, all night."

Suddenly, Mohinder found his arms moving as if they were on strings. Each rose into the air with a certain delicate manipulation present in even the slightest twitch. Fingers splayed out until they landed gently on the steering wheel—curling until his grip was tight on the surface of the wheel itself. Mohinder's heart clenched in his chest as he felt the strange sensation overtake his body.

"What…what is this, it's not telekinesis—there's no pressure being applied."

Days after he was pinned to the ceiling with naught but the concentration of a man who felt incredibly betrayed—there were odd bruises all over his body. Splotches of purple and blue that were sensitive to the touch due to tender flesh. But with this, he couldn't feel anything on his arms or wrists themselves, no they felt rather light when lifted.

A soft, dark chuckle spilled out from Sylar's smirking lips. The man's laughter always held a menacing, taunting quality to it in Mohinder's opinion. The backseat squeaked as the man leaned forward so that his lips were mere centimeters away from the shell of Suresh's ear.

"No, it's not. I just obtained this fascinating ability—such a slovenly, shabby excuse for a man didn't deserve such a graceful—"

Sylar lifted his hand and Mohinder's did the same in turn—off the steering wheel and into mid-air.

"…and intricate—"

Sylar's pale fingers flexed and wriggled as Mohinder's hand continued to be the mirror image of the killer's actions.

"…ability. It will be put to much better use with me."

To demonstrate what sort of use—Mohinder suddenly found his own fingertips dragging along the front of his jacket, grasping at the zipper and taking it down along its metal track. The breeze of the air conditioning found its way to seeping past the thin cotton of Mohinder's shirt. Next, his hand was at the end of his shirt, fingers moved to twist momentarily at the fabric before they roamed over the waist of his khakis and traveled even further below that point to reach the warmth of the crotch of his pants. Mohinder wondered if this ability allowed Sylar to feel how hard the subtle, well-placed stimulations were making him—he certainly hoped not.

"Wh-what are you doing? Stop it."

Not a sound from his passenger as Suresh's nimble fingers curled to grasp at the middle of his erection and roughly, painfully tug at himself. Every grunt and groan stifled except for the first—it was the most shocked—Mohinder struggled to maintain some semblance of control while his own body turned against him. As his hand jerked and pawed over the wrinkled material, Sylar finally spoke once more.

"Enjoy it Mohinder….You know, it was completely random that I was given your file as my assignment—it could have been any one of Nathan's men who was to bring you in. I think that right there is a testament to our very special shared destiny, wouldn't you say Doctor?"

Finally, Mohinder's hand stopped and lifted once more—moving to undo his seat belt as Sylar mimicked the same motion in the backseat. Once the belt rested against the inside of the cab's door, Mohinder's hips started to turn and his leg sought to balance his body during the move inside the vehicle. His body turned to face Sylar, he could see the man then—even more so when both moved forward, leaning in. But it was a limited view at best—the first thing of note was the lack of his typical sort of outfit. No, he was in _uniform_. A black jacket with a four-button closure over a black shirt, black pants that were bunched around his ankles and combat boots. A vest was strapped over the front of his shirt, various pockets that Mohinder had no idea what other purposes the equipment on his vest could be for. The only thing that lit his face was the console of his dashboard—leaving Sylar's stubbled jawline and chin to be the parts of his face in view.

"Nathan's…men."

Suresh scoffed and chuckled derisively at the man who still held the 'strings' of his body.

"So you've finally sold yourself out huh? I don't find there to be much of anything 'special' in being a glorified blunt object for Senator Petrelli's use. Honestly, is there anything more mediocre than being a middleman—a lackey? And don't call me 'Doctor' as if nothing has changed between us, I don't participate in my research any more. I'm trying to move on with my life, away from the mistakes my father left behind."

A palpable moment of tension made the sudden stillness from both men that much more pronounced. Suddenly, the strings were cut and Sylar was back to his old bag of tricks—a telekinetic grip around Mohinder's neck. The cool glass of the window stung initially at Suresh's cheek as it was pressed to his warm flesh. His teeth very nearly smacked into the window from the suddenness of the shove. Sylar leaned forward more, the soft light spread over his features—for the first time since he entered the vehicle, Mohinder could finally see Sylar's nearly-black eyes as they gazed upon him. Cruel indifference in each orb as his face stopped only an inch away from Mohinder's own.

"Would you like to know how I feel right now, Mohinder? Nostalgic—nostalgic for the last time I was in the backseat of a taxi cab in New York City."

That was all Sylar needed to do—insinuate the 'anonymous' brutal murder of Chandra Suresh and Mohinder knew the threat to his life was clear. When Mohinder shifted his gaze, he could see the cracked wristwatch still on Sylar's wrist. Thanks to the ability of a boy named Sanjog Iyer back in India—Suresh knew exactly how that watch was damaged.

"Your, ugh—your nostalgia is evident from that watch…What is it that you want from me this time, exactly?"

Sylar didn't know what to think about that, what would he know about the watch? It never came up after he sought out Suresh to get his powers back, and he never had it on during his 'Zane' days. But he didn't have time for this—he had a job to do and so he had to focus. The grip on Mohinder's neck was relinquished and again the strings took hold of his body. Sylar moved his hand until Suresh's stiff body tilted perfectly upright again. From being moved again, Mohinder had a stray lock of hair that dangled over his right eye. Without even thinking about the intangible strings that he still held—Sylar reached across and brushed his fingers through Mohinder's wavy curls. Mohinder had no choice but to mimic the motion as his own hand swept through Sylar's dark brunette strands with a swift, fluid motion.

For a very slight moment—a flicker of nerves flashed across Sylar's face when Mohinder touched him. It wasn't something they'd ever done before, and it certainly rattled him. Mohinder's arm was placed back at his side while both men sat there—each staring at the other as Sylar spoke.

"This is a bit of a first for us, Mohinder. Every time that I've found you in the past—it's been for my own gain. But this time, I can assure you that I'm only here for the good of my country."

Sylar grinned deviously at these last words before he went on.

"Nathan wants you on his side—wants your research…that's why I'm here. All he wants to do is talk Mohinder, you should count yourself lucky. I mean, I doubt most of the others will be handled that way. But here, I want to show you something…neat."

Mohinder raised a brow at this then watched as his left arm rose into the air until it was straight and perpendicular with the seat itself. Sylar's arm did the same while his opposite hand reached over and his fingertips brushed along the sleeve of his shirt.

"Now, I haven't got anything up my sleeve—neither do you."

Mohinder's fingers dragged against his jacket sleeve while Sylar kept control of his limbs. Next, Sylar's hand moved over to the front of his tactical vest. The tips of his fingers slipped into a pocket as Suresh's hand founds its way into the small pocket on the front of his own shirt.

"And there's nothing in _your_ pocket but—there's definitely something in mine."

Both withdrew their hands slowly—Mohinder's was indeed empty but Sylar's held a small, thin syringe. It housed a very powerful sedative that was protocol to use on these extractions. Mohinder could practically tell what it was the second Sylar produced it from his vest. The man smirked and held his hand out while Mohinder copied him during the motion. The syringe was carefully passed from Sylar's hand to Mohinder's own and then his fingers curled tightly around it, thumb on the plunger while Sylar held nothing but air.

"Sylar, wait! What are you doing, stop this now! This isn't what you want to do—follow someone else's orders! You don't want to listen to Nathan Petrelli all of your life!"

For a second, Sylar paused with his hand still clenched in mid-air as if he were contemplating not going through with it. He leaned in an inch, Mohinder forced to do the same.

"I'm sure you and I will have plenty of opportunity to discuss this in further detail but for now let's just say for right now, it's because family is important, Mohinder."

He wondered if Mohinder remembered that he was related to these men now—Nathan and Peter were his brothers. As much as Sylar had been alone in his life, there was certainly a sense of security to be found in knowing that he had a family. Or at least part of one—Peter didn't quite fit into their plans and would be dealt with accordingly.

Before Mohinder could resume his protests—Sylar's arm lifted up and then he brought it down again with a stabbing motion. Sylar's fist hit his arm and the syringe tore into Mohinder's flesh, his thumb moved to press the plunger down all the way—the contents of the tube emptying into his system. When the tube was empty, Sylar stopped using the manipulation of Doyle's former ability and watched as Suresh dropped the syringe and tried to fight off the sedatives shutting down his system bit by bit.

"You…errrm…regretthissss…you'rewrong…ugh…"

Mohinder passed out, slumping half off the seat as his body crumpled into itself in the front seat. The backseat squeaked again as Sylar leaned forward to check—Mohinder was definitely out. He reclined again and touched the device clipped to his ear, a Bluetooth wireless device.

"Target has been subdued, I need a collection/transport team at the corner of Bismarck Ave. and 54th."

Sylar flicked the backseat open and left the vehicle. Thick black soles crunched the gritty pavement as his boots thudded with every step around the vehicle—opening the front seat and shifting Suresh over.

"No struggle was made—no civilians involved this time. I'll be contacting the Senator myself ab—"

He stopped when something quite strange caught his glance out of the corner of his eye. Sylar leaned down and held the driver's side door open as he inspected the steering wheel Suresh had his hands on not long ago. There were marks in it—nearly half an inch deep that were in the shapes of fingertips. He felt the hard plastic of the wheel and a flash of getting pummeled by this man at Pinehearst went through his head. He turned and looked down at Mohinder again—the light was better by the dashboard so he could see his skin. But there were no scales or disfigurations this time. Sylar smirked as he realized that Mohinder was holding onto a very big secret about himself.

"—Bring a mobile sedative kit…Suresh has an ability still."

Present Day. September 2008.

A single black Lincoln town-car pulled into the massive airplane hangar housed at a top-secret military base in Virginia. Its tinted windows kept any possible curious onlooker unaware of the presence of the man inside. When the vehicle parked, a single secret service agent left the front passenger seat and went around to let out President Petrelli. Nathan was dressed in a smartly-tailored Versace suit underneath a black Burberry pea-coat. The very hints of bags under his stern, amber eyes that were proof of his steadily sleep-less nights. Ever since the failed detainment of Luke Campbell—Nathan lost sleep as he tried to strategize and make his next move. He strode into the hangar and looked around at the twisted remains of the former aircraft suspended from the ceiling. Every piece was constantly looked over by a team of both structural engineers and agents. The more this incident could be kept quiet—the better. He had worked far too hard and sacrificed a great deal to get where he was now. Certainly it wasn't going to be ruined by the man who shouldn't even be alive—the man he reluctantly called brother. As he looked upon a piece of the scorched cockpit door—another car pulled into the hangar.

This was a black Lincoln Navigator, windows tinted as well, parked diagonally away from the town-car, and the man who got out didn't look so out of place on a military base. Maybe it was his haircut, neat and short. Or the glasses that placed him right out of the 1960's and the glory days of the CIA. However, Noah Bennet was not a military man nor was he a government man necessarily. He sort of operated on a playing field of his own design even though he technically answered to Nathan. Bennet walked over to Nathan who's back was facing him.

"I received the tape and I've reviewed it extensively. I'm assuming that you want me to bring him in."

Nathan didn't shift or look away from the pieces of wreckage as he replied.

"Dead or alive—either way he can be dealt with accordingly Noah. So, if you've watched the footage that much then you've noticed all the little things that have kept me up at night about it."

Bennet adjusted his glasses and looked at the wreckage himself as he spoke.

"Everything about it is off for him. He's a cocky bastard yes but he is usually smarter than that. Using the uniform, the protocol…after everything that happened with you and he, I'm amazed he would do that and not just go in on his own as himself. You're sure he was on the plane when it went down?"

"Positive. I'm positive of it—he could have healed if the impact wasn't too much. Honestly Noah I watch the footage and it's like…he thinks this is the most clever idea ever."

The president turned and looked at Noah right in the eye now as he went on.

"Do you think he could have forgotten, say there was something off with his mind—amnesia maybe. I know that Peter's had it before and well, it would explain a lot. I look at Sylar in that mask in the video and I wonder why he doesn't just show his face. The only thing I can come up with is that he honestly thinks going 'undercover' as an agent is something new for him. Otherwise, that type of move would just be idiotic, and I know my younger brother better than that by now. I guess we'll find out. Find him, Noah. He could ruin all of this with his persistence and we both know that."

Bennet nodded and checked his watch.

"I'll leave now, I assume that I'll be able to work with the Haitian on this? He's best-suited for the job."

Nathan stared blankly ahead of himself—he wondered what Peter was doing now. How bad he was after the crash…who he was with now.

"Of course. And thank you Noah for all of your hard work, your dedication to what needs to be done now."

Bennet buttoned his jacket up, moving his tie aside and straightening it.

"I'll bring him 'home' Nathan."

Bennet smiled some and turned on his heel, walking back to the Navigator and getting inside. Sylar with memory loss could be an incredibly dangerous thing. The sooner he was brought down—the better. He pulled the car out of the hangar and went back down the private road that lead to the base.


	3. What It Takes

Sterile white walls and too-bright lights were what greeted Nathan Petrelli as he strode down the hall of the top-secret facility in Annapolis, Maryland. He just got back from his meeting with the president and everything had begun to fall into place. But he needed to gain a very important piece to the puzzle. One that was recovered from the smoldering rubble that was once Primatech Paper headquarters in Hartsdale, New York. A man who it turned out was more than just a special with a file the size of a college textbook—he was Nathan's brother. That didn't mean, however, that he would get any special treatment during his detainment. Nathan scanned his thumbprint through, and he waited for the green light as the door opened before him.

Bound to a steel chair by his ankles, thighs, chest, wrists, and forearms sat the man who could become instrumental in Nathan's plans reaching fruition. At the moment, he served the function of the perfect guinea pig for the mobile sedation kit strapped over the tufts of dark chest hair. A single tube ran from the box and up into his nostril—keeping him unconscious as needed. His head hung down in this prone state and his grown out hair never looked messier as it fell into his closed eyes. Nathan regarded the barely clothed man for a few quiet moments. Idly, he checked over his chart and was pleased to note that there were no unplanned awakenings recorded. On his own, without the supervision of a staff member—Nathan bent down and adjusted the knob on the device. It should only take between five to ten minutes for Sylar to start coming to, but it was more like three minutes as he groaned and shifted. His head bobbed a few times and his lean-muscled form strained against the straps. These weren't padded like the Primatech version of the bonds. Slowly, he lifted his head—eyes held in slits of dark rage. Nathan watched his younger half-brother while he emerged back into the waking world. He folded his arms directly over the red silk tie draped neatly over his crisp white dress shirt—tucked into the navy suit jacket.

"The doctor on staff said that light-headedness, confusion and some minor nausea were all common side effects when the dosage has been reduced. But I think you're just fine, Petrelli men are made of stronger stuff than most, right?"

Sylar knit his brow as he listened to the man speak. Did he work for the late Arthur Petrelli? Was this…no, this wasn't Pinehearst.

"If you really, ugh—if you had any idea what you were talking about then you'd know that I'm not Arthur Petrelli's son. "

Nathan nodded and reached into his jacket. When he withdrew his arm, in his hand were a few folded documents that he set on the table.

"I know. Here are…copies of your birth certificate, your adoption records—they state that while Arthur was not your father, Angela Petrelli was your biological mother. Which explains why you didn't kill her before the explosion that burned Primatech to the ground."

"Explosion…burned to the ground? The Company is gone?"

For just a split second, Sylar allowed himself a brief moment of joy. The bastards who have interfered in his life and in his plans for far too long are nothing but ashes in the wind now according to this man. But then just as quickly as that moment of relief came to Sylar—the next feeling was of grave uncertainty. If this wasn't Pinehearst and it wasn't Primatech then where was he and why was he being held here?

Nathan nodded to answer Sylar's question about the Company's demise but before he could go on, his cell phone rang insistently in the left breast of his suit jacket. Nathan lifted his index finger up to signal 'one moment' as he reached into his jacket and removed the interruption. Flipping it open with a deft flick of the wrist, he held the phone to his ear and spoke.

"Yes? Was the capture successful? Good…no casualties—she tried though? I'm can't say I'm surprised. Mhm. Well, exercise extreme caution and the more she's sedated entirely—the better. Of course, I'll notify the President immediately after I'm finished here. Keep me posted on the status of that situation…Good. Don't call me for the next hour or so, I want no further interruptions."

He hung up the phone, set it down on the table in the center of the room before he turned on his heel; Sylar saw an apologetic smile crease the man's features.

"Sorry about that, they can't do anything without my go-ahead so I have to deal with that damn phone ringing all day long."

Sylar sat up straighter in the chair—though it chafed his bare chest to do so as the straps scratched his skin a little from the movement.

"So what are you, a Fed or something? Do you know…what happened to the last federal agent that I crossed paths with? She certainly wouldn't be able to tell you."

That smirk darkened his face as he looked up. It happened a short time after the death of Ted Sprague. He couldn't resist, even though it was so much fun to toy with her at the scene of Ted's arrest. Sylar had enough cat and mouse games on his plate what with Bennet and the Company so he decided to streamline things a bit. Oh the look on her face when she remembered he was the man in the crowd who called in Sprague—ever the patriot that he was in doing his duty as a citizen to make sure he was locked away—was particularly priceless.

Nathan nodded and sifted through the papers he'd brought in with him—so much of this could remind him of his former days as an assistant district attorney. A glossy 8X10 photograph was produced and held up for Sylar to see.

"As I'm sure you're referring to Agent Hanson—yes I know what you did to her. But I'm no federal agent, Sylar. I answer only to one other person, and he doesn't even know that you're here right now. If he did—he would have ordered an immediate termination. Neither of us wants that—for a couple reasons."

He moved closer to him and unstrapped his forearms, then his wrists as he spoke.

"The first reason being…you serve a much greater purpose as part of what I'm doing than locked away. I have read every single page of your file—I know about all of the kills, your history with the Company, your attacks made against Claire Bennet, and yet after everything, you've been through you're still here. Unscathed, relatively. You're more than capable but I also know that you're searching for your purpose in life. I can give you one Sylar, a very important purpose for the future of this country. But the main reason I'm coming to you is because…"

Nathan reached out and he unstrapped the sedation device, from Sylar's chest. Removing the tube from Sylar's nostril then stepping back. When he did, Sylar concentrated and every other strap holding him down unbuckled and snapped off of the chair entirely. He stood not as smoothly as he would have intended, but at least he didn't fall back down—the chemicals weren't entirely finished with his system. Nathan watched him then adjusted his gaze so he stared right into the eyes.

"…family is important. We've never met but you're my brother, Sylar. I'm Nathan—Nathan Petrelli. And I think that you and I could do great things together."

Sylar narrowed his eyes and his hand lifted up from his side, it was much more of a threat of what he could do than a gesture of action. He took a step forward and Nathan didn't move from his position in the slightest.

"Then tell me, _brother_…what is this place—what do you want with me? I have to say that if you think I'm going to be your blunt instrument as our mother believed—"

Suddenly Nathan's neck felt the strain of an invisible force clamped down on his skin. His legs shifted back and he found himself backing up against the wall as Sylar calmly moved forward. He coughed and the air was trapped in his throat, causing him to sputter and move his still free hands up to try and loosen his shirt collar and tie.

"—then this will be a very short 'family reunion' indeed, Nathan."

Nathan strained against the invisible, but he quickly found that he wouldn't be released unless Sylar decided it. Their eyes met and Sylar couldn't help but be intrigued by the lack of fear Nathan's softer, hazel orbs.

"Look, something happens to me and there will be another to take my place. What's done is done now—you would be forced to run again. What I'm offering you, Sylar, is a chance to stop running. To give your life what youwhat you always knew you were meant for—a greater purpose. Now, I want to work with you on this…will you let me?"

Sylar regarded the trapped politician for a quiet moment. True, his mother tried to give him a purpose by having him work for the Company—but that didn't work out in a favorable manner. However, if the Company was truly gone, then it was a chance for things to be different. Slowly, he let up on his telekinesis and took a step back. Despite all of his poise, Nathan nearly fell forward onto his face when there was no longer anything forcing him to stand upright.

"What exactly _is_ 'this', anyway?"

After Nathan adjusted his tie, he turned and made his way over to a grouping of cabinets on the back wall. He unlocked one and sifted through it before he re-locked it. With a fling of his arm, he tossed a white t-shirt and some elastic-waist pants to his younger brother.

"Put these on, we're going for a walk."

Sylar didn't argue with the man—he tossed the shirt on over his bare chest and slid the pants up his lanky legs until they rested at about the middle of his slender hips. Nathan moved over to the unlocked door and motioned for his younger brother to follow. Both men moved down the hall and then into a different room—in it, were a few monitors that were completely black at first. After they were both inside, two men filed into the room. They had black head-to-toe tactical uniforms and both remained still and silent as Nathan moved forward to one of the monitors. Sylar turned and stared at them—he was more than slightly unnerved by their presence.

"What is with them?"

Nathan ignored his questioned and took a step back as the monitor showed a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit, bound down with a tube strategically shoved into his nose. The sedative was rather powerful indeed for this particular detainee.

"The man on the screen is someone that you should know from the intel. We've gathered about the Primatech incident. Eric Doyle, he was brought in shortly after the fire itself by agents Simmons and Daniels here and has been with us ever since. He is here because he is a danger to others, Sylar—because these abilities are a threat that only leads to chaos. Time and time again that's what happens…and this is what I want you to help me with. My team and I are rounding them up and putting them away. There is a facility where they won't be a threat to anyone and especially, not to themselves."

Sylar smirked as he watched Doyle on the screen as he replied.

"Hm. I find it really amusing that you would ask me to help you with this when you know that I'm something of a threat myself, Nathan. And that makes me wonder…what am I getting out of this that would make me want to give a damn?"

Nathan shifted, buttoning his suit up again with a deft movement of his hand. He looked Sylar right in the eye after his brother could tear himself away from staring at the screen.

"I can offer you complete amnesty from ending up like Doyle there. All I want from you is your assistance. As I said—I've read your file, and there is no one better-suited to hunting these people. I can assure you that you will be given the authority to do it the way you want to and…let me just say that there are certain perks involved for you, if you agree. I mean it; Sylar…no more running and you would become a part of something bigger than the both of us. I'm asking you not as the man running this—I am asking you as the brother you never got the chance to know because of all the secrecy and shame involved in how the Company did things. Well we're not them, and this is going to happen—I'd like it to happen with someone I can trust to get the job done on my side."

It was a little strange to hear someone who was mostly unknown to him have such…_faith_ in him and his capabilities. He truly believed that he could do this—there was no tingle that would have denoted a lie. To step outside of it, of course it would be smart to be on this side of things—but that's not why Sylar looked his brother in the eye and agreed to do it. After being rejected and used by so many outside influences in his life—he could see this is a chance of doing things on his own terms by someone who sought him out specifically, a brother.

"I suppose you really have a way with words, Senator…where do we begin?"

Nathan was relieved, he knew that having a force like Sylar with his team was going to make the takedowns that much easier. Every powerful man has a weakness and Nathan found Sylar's—he just wanted to be accepted and he clearly wanted something of family. Both facts that Nathan kept in mind as he carefully crafted his pitch for his half-brother. He half-smiled and walked back to the monitor, turning it off again before he lead Sylar back out of the room and into the hall again.

"First…I need you to do something for me and well, for yourself. It's the second on your right, the code is '5-4-4-2', come out when you're done."

Sylar turned and looked at Nathan—what was behind the door that he could possibly need or want? But Nathan just stood there, watching him expectantly. After he stopped at the door and entered the code—Sylar found himself in another room not all that different from the one he woke up in. Though the door was different—it wasn't reinforced and about three and a half inches thick like his was. The lights were low but he could make out the exact same bound and drugged figure he just watched on the monitor not moments ago. This couldn't possibly be what he assumed—there was no way Nathan would just open the door and step back to let him do what he must know Sylar would when confronted with this situation.

"…Doyle? Eric…Doyle?"

He moved further into the room and watched with great interest as the man's head moved then his body flinched. A smile spread over his lips as Sylar moved to walk in front of him. He bent down and crouched in front of him, placing his hands over Doyle's fingers.

"I'm sure it didn't take long for them to find you afterward—did it? No, I'm sure it did not…and even with that ability, you were still taken down. Tsk tsk tsk."

He clucked his tongue against the inside of his mouth while he shook his head, Doyle could start to feel a foreign, bruising pressure on his wrists and it was not from Sylar's hands themselves as he stood up again and his hands went back to his sides for the time being. Doyle's bleary eyes tried to focus on the tall man in front of him and his fingers twitched just a little. Though with the amount of drugs being pumped into his system he had absolutely no tether to his central nervous system in order to control or initiate the ability he possessed. Doyle mumbled incoherently as his eyes fluttered.

"Nmm…Got…no…no…supossstabefree…wheressssnathan…?"

Sylar watched him mumble and then smiled again, a low, dark chuckle rumbled out of his chest.

"Nathan? Nathan's not here…you are going to deal with me. And really Doyle, what were you thinking back at Primatech? That someone as pathetic as you could best me? Shame I have to teach you that lesson again but then really—that ability is too intricate and graceful for you to have. While I'll admit that I felt it hold me for a moment—you couldn't keep it. And it's why you don't deserve it, not anymore. Many people don't deserve their gifts, Eric and you know what I do about that? I rectify that and make sure these powers are used in the ways they were meant to be. The difference between me and you and why your power cannot possibly beat mine is this—"

With a sudden flick of his wrist, Doyle found that his hands, bound though they were, twisted around all the way while inside the restraints. His wrists broken on both hands from the awkward angle they were pulled into as he screamed out in excruciating agony. Sylar smiled, pleased with the man's immediate response.

"—my ability is something I know how to use to its full potential. And that potential includes the capability to cause incredible amounts of pain. I'm sure I'll be able to find ways to use yours in a similar fashion Doyle, don't worry. "

As Eric Doyle writhed and rambled nonsense about how much pain he was in, and how Nathan had 'lied' to him—Sylar stood before him and raised his right index finger. Another piercing scream could be heard in the room, but not in the hall—soundproof cells were a necessity due to Nathan's men and their methods. After roughly four minutes, Sylar reemerged from the room and looked at over at his brother who was waiting for him.

"I trust you have a means of cleaning that mess up but if you want to, I can dispose of Doyle personally. I leave it up to you Nathan but I can assume that your men already know how I handle things."

His arms were drenched in blood as were his hands. He smiled and shook his head while he walked past to find somewhere he could clean himself up. Nathan's stomach twisted for a slight moment—but there was no other choice in this matter, Peter flatly refused to see anything from a different perspective other than his own. It had to be like this now.

**Present Day. **

Silver forks clinked noisily against dishware as a waitress flitted about the Riverview Diner purpose and experienced ease. Greta had been working at the Riverview for close to eight years—she couldn't imagine any other place for her to come to everyday. There was never a shortage of intriguing patrons who came through. Long-haul truckers, tourists, and the slew of regulars who seemed like they were always there yet never long enough to truly get to know beside a friendly hello and the occasional personal detail.

Greta carried an armload of plates throughout the small space. When there were only two plates left—a turn on her heel lead her to the booth in the corner. She had found out from the elder of the two men—butternut waffles, scrambled eggs with black pepper, two sausage patties, and black coffee—that they were brothers on a road trip to see the historical sites of the country. To Greta, it was refreshing to see two siblings take time out of their lives to spend some time together bonding on the open road—certainly something she'd hoped wasn't just a dated idea.

She smiled as she set down both of their orders. The older brother leaned forward to accept his plate—a charming smile flashed while he picked up his fork. Sylar held his fork much as he did any small tool—with precision and a steady hand. Sometimes it seemed he would forever carry the habits of his former life in that dimly-lit shop. She gave the last plate over to the younger brother and noted how much more reserved he was.

"Your waffles and here is your short-stack. Can I get you any jam or boysenberry syrup for those, sweetie?"

Luke shifted and glanced up at the perky woman, gave a slight shake of his head as he went for his half-gone milkshake. A loud chuckle from Sylar as he reached over and ruffled Luke's chestnut hair with his pale, strong fingers.

"Luke, now come on don't be shy around Greta here. You'll have to excuse my little brother—he gets quiet around people he doesn't know, but I'm doing what I can to fix that."

The boy flinched at Sylar's hand in his hair then smirked at his 'brother' while Greta cackled—a very hoarse, nicotine-laced sound. She smiled and chatted with Sylar for a little bit longer.

"So where is the next stop on your trip, boys? Vermont itself has a rich history but I bet you're onto something a little grander, am I right?"

Sylar started emptying sugar packets into his coffee as he spoke.

"Something grander…can you read minds, Greta? Because you are spot—"

He next picked up the spoon at his right side; Sylar stirred the substance into his beverage. Sweets were what could be considered Sylar's any other vice—the man simply couldn't get enough. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Virginia Gray would do everything she could to keep the tasty morsels of candy from her "son". Clearly he wasn't allowed to go out on Halloween either as it was a demon's holiday. But now what was he? A demon on holiday—taking what he wanted, when he wanted, and he indulged in whatever whims come to him during his days and especially his nights. What else could he be after he almost single-handedly destroyed something so beautiful? When he could not save him. However, after this business with his half-brother was taken care off it was back to the single defining goal of his new life—power and getting more of it. The spoon went down again—a splotch of coffee seeped from the curved dip, and stained his napkin in the shape of a most inviting drop of blood.

"—on. We're actually making our way to our nation's capital…there's so much to see there and to do. I think it will be highly educational for Luke here."

Luke smirked and looked up from his food for a moment.

"I can't wait to take a lot of cheesy pictures in front of the monuments and see the Declaration of Independence. It's going to be a blast."

His tone started with faked enthusiasm or at least Sylar knew it was faked, in all actuality the boy was talented at playing up faux excitement for the benefit of others. The last statement held a grim bemusement to it, because by "blast" it was literally meant as a blast—an explosion. The current plan for when they arrive in D.C. If they thought he was a monster worth hunting then he'd make sure they were right if it meant revenge for what he may never fully have again. Greta chuckled and smiled.

"See, he's opening up some already. You boys let me know if you need anything else."

She gave them each a glance then turned around and went back to the kitchen to pick up another round of orders. Sylar watched her go then turned back to the young man in the booth with him. When he turned back he saw Luke holding his hand over the ball of whipped butter on top of his stack of pancakes. The yellow mass started to bubble and turn and warm, it melted into a spreadable cream that Luke smeared all over his short-stack. Before he had his first bite in his hand he found a fork stabbed through his pancakes, Sylar gripped the handle as he looked into the boy's eyes.

"Not….here. Use a fork to make it melt just like all of the other customers in here."

More than a warning flashed in Sylar's eyes as he slowly leaned back into his side of the booth again. Public shows of abilities that were not based in self-defense were not what they needed to be participating in at the moment. They were so close now—he was so close now. Luke leaned forward hand out to hover over Gabriel's plate as they sat there.

"I may as well melt yours as well if you're going to make small-talk with every random waitress and gas attendant we come across. She knows our names now and if they were coming for me—there has got to be posters somewhere. I don't know about you, but I sort of enjoy not being in chains in a concrete box, Gabriel."

Sylar lifted a dark brow at the boy's sureness. He reached out and slowly slid his plate from underneath Luke's hand. A quick glance behind him and he spoke softly.

"The waitress is not going to cause an issue but if you use your ability in public and some nosy concerned citizen sees it and calls us in… then you are going to become an issue yourself, Luke. Now we're going to sit here, eat our breakfast, pay, and leave. I want to be in D.C. in the next two days. Where, I will inform you now, we will be shot at and maybe even killed trying. But then you must know that by now, experienced fugitive from the law that you are."

He scoffed and leaned back again, smoothly grasping the fork between his thumb and index finger—the side of the utensil rested comfortably on the side of his middle finger—and he dug into his eggs. They both ate in silence for a while—well except for the occasional slurp of a vanilla milkshake when the boy had the straw between his lips again. Despite how annoying and talkative he could be at times—Sylar found himself taking a liking to Luke. He reminded him a great deal of himself when he was younger but most importantly—he wasn't trying to play Sylar. So many others had before him—manipulated him or were disgusted by the real person he was.

Today wasn't just a necessary pit-stop—it was Luke's litmus test. Was Luke truly cut out for being by Sylar's side while he did this? Would he show weakness at the worst possible moment when faced with purposeful carnage? Real blood whose scent stung the air from the second it was released from the warm housing of veins and arteries. Bodies that once lived, breathed, laughed, and loved turned into slabs of flesh and bone once they were of no further use. Could Luke handle it? As soon as Sylar was finished with his waffles—he would find out. He set his fork down and wiped his lips carefully with the napkin next to his plate.

"So you haven't really told me why you're doing this. Why you want to bring down Petrelli—does it have something to do with whatever 'Mohinder' means?"

Shards of Sylar's coffee cup clattered onto the floor and a couple embedded themselves deeply into the vinyl of the booth seat. Hot coffee scalded Sylar's hand and arm as he groaned; a growl escaped his bared teeth and lips while a few fellow customers got curious enough to look their way. Of course the burns blistered and popped until new skin created itself to mend over his arm. He leaned over, half-standing up over the table as he glared the boy down.

"How…do you know that name?"

Luke's eyes were focused on watching his skin sew over and the tiny dark hairs that sprouted anew over the flesh—growing out long and once again thickly coating his fore-arm. His eyes moved to meet Gabriel's again.

"This morning—you said it in your sleep when I was up getting a glass of water. You said 'Mohinder, I'm sorry' I didn't know what it meant…"

He seethed and watched the boy carefully before he sat down again. Sylar checked his own hand back and front when he heard Greta's voice at his side.

"Oh my…are you okay there son? Did you get burned, let me see…"

She reached for his hand but he politely stopped her with his free hand.

"It's fine, I just made a mess of the table but I'll get it."

He smiled at her but it was clearly a tenser gesture than any prior grins. A wad of paper napkins crumpled in his hand as he wiped up the quickly-cooling liquid. She frowned some and nodded, Greta headed back into the kitchen to get a dish-towel to help better clean the coffee up. Sylar looked at Luke when they were alone again, a pained expression as he sighed at the thought of him. His smile, his voice, his rare honest laugh—so many things he missed and would continue to miss about the man who perished on that plane. The one he could not save. He shook it off and looked over at the boy.

"Come on. Let's go."

Sylar stood up smoothly, a cursory glance around the diner revealed nothing he would be worried by. No 'concealed' scouts or agents. But they were not going to head off and find a motel for the evening—there was work to do. He reached into his wallet and pulled out two crisp ten dollar bills and threw them down on the table. Greta really was a wonderfully capable waitress.

At the end of her shift, she slowly untied the blue and white apron from her waist, folded it over one arm and set it in her locker. Another long day but no matter anything that happened today—Greta always seemed to have a song playing in her mind that kept her going. It always brought a smile to her face when she closed her eyes and just listened to the music. It was never the same thing twice—sometimes it was a country station. Other times, it was some classical or easy listening. She hadn't told anyone about this since it began happening because she'd heard talk from passerby in the diner about people who could do 'things' being of great interest to the government. Greta had no intention of her life changing in the least so she kept it to herself.

On Wednesdays, Greta was the only one to close the diner down since Fred, the line cook, always had his A.A. meetings to get to. She didn't mind though it was something to be in a place that was usually so bustling and loud when it was dead-quiet and still. While she closed up the till, a frantic banging on the glass made her drop the keys to the register on the linoleum floor. When her head whipped up to the door—Greta saw the same kid from before…that Luke kid. She eased her breathing and moved over to the door—it unlocked easily and Luke's wide eyes told her something was wrong.

"Oh God…Oh thank you, I-I need to use your phone, there was an accident—my brother is trapped in the car about a half mile from here. I ran the whole way, please call 911!"

Greta looked at Luke and sure enough there were some lights cuts and bruises on his forehead and cheek. His arm was all scratched up as well. Greta turned to go to the phone as Luke followed Gabriel's plan to the last detail. His hand reached behind him and he let microwave energy melt the lock into a glob that made it impossible to unlock—didn't even have a hole anymore and it effectively kept the door shut without the threat of budging. It's just what Gabriel told him to do and he'd handle the rest.

When she hit the 'call' button on the phone—only static greeted her. Oh God, the line could not be dead right now what timing. She tried again and again, smacking the phone to her hand.

"Luke I'm sorry the line is de—"

Greta looked around the room and as if she was speaking to an apparition—Luke was gone and she was alone in the room once more. She blinked hard and glanced around quickly. Huh…she's got to get home since she's seeing things now. Greta bent down and scooped the keys from the floor. She moved from behind the counter and toward the back to get her things from the locker room. Before she could even get to her locker, Greta suddenly found that her legs were frozen in place. She panicked some as she thought that there was some sort of sudden muscle issue to deal with. But no, this felt entirely different and before she knew it—Greta wasn't touching the ground anymore. No, she had started to float and then her body was flung roughly against the lockers. From the force of the impact—her vision blurred and her speech slurred before she passed out entirely. When her body remained still for a few moments—that's when Sylar emerged from the shadows of the break-room with Luke close behind.

"Isn't this a bit much if we're just going to get some cash and go?"

Sylar was already crouched down on his knees at the woman's side. He regarded her quietly, a hand out to push her hair from her forehead.

"While a theft is going to happen it's not the kind you think. Come here, Luke."

He motioned to his right side as he prepared to lift his hand—finger out and aimed at the right side of her forehead. Luke watched, confused but unafraid at this time. Sylar gracefully flicked his finger in a steady, familiar line across the unconscious woman's forehead. A seam revealed itself that dripped with fresh blood as her sawed through skin and skull. While the look on Luke's face was shock and maybe even a natural revulsion—he couldn't help but to get in closer to watch Gabriel as he worked.

"What—what are you doing to her?

"There were times that when I did this I would think about the nature of natural selection. Survival of the fittest while the weak fell. But after what I've lived through and what I've seen over the past couple years it would seem like so much trite talk. No, this woman was going to die Luke. It just depended if it was by my hand, or the hands of President Petrelli's men who are scheduled to visit Greta here tomorrow morning at her residence at the Cherrywood Manor apartments on Birch Street. That tough-book I've had with us had her name in it because Greta has no idea how special she is."

Luke's brow remained knit in confusion as Gabriel spoke, the blood seeped out of Greta's wound a little more slowly than when the first cut was made.

"Okay so…you don't want Petrelli's men to get to her? Why couldn't you just find some other way to kill her?"

His eyes were fixed on carefully separating the skull cap from the incision point. Fingers poised to set the discarded scalp aside. As his fingers probed and searched for the precise piece he softly spoke.

"This isn't a mercy killing of some sort—Greta has what I need. This ability to know how things work—and that's what my true ability is, Luke—allows for an understanding of one of the most complex systems imaginable. When I look at this woman's brain—sift through her very core—I'm able to see it. Everything that makes her unique—special. And then I…I….hmm."

Sylar's own mind was reconfiguring itself to make it possible for this ability to become activated and useable. What Greta didn't know is that the reason she always had a song in her mind was entirely practical. The reason why the type of song was always different also could be explained by the fact that she was picking up on the signals sent over the airwaves by two different radio stations. Greta had the ability to receive wireless signals. She didn't know that not only could she pick up these signals—she could manipulate them. Any signal sent over the airwaves—radio transmissions, wireless internet communiqués—would have been at her direct attention if only she knew how to harness it.

When Sylar took her ability, he felt it almost instantly. Hundreds then thousands of messages fought their way for space in his mind. Luke watched as the man's eyes fluttered and his blood-soaked hands slipped from the floor as Sylar leaned over to one side then flat on the ground with a pained grunt.

"Gabriel? Gabriel, wh-what are you doing?"

Luke carefully walked forward and watched as Gabriel muttered and twitched. He looked quickly over both shoulders. They needed to get out of there before someone showed up and gave them exactly the kind of attention neither needed.

"Gabriel. Seriously…"

Gabriel hadn't moved except for the occasional twitch all while Luke spoke to him. What seemed like another life ago, when Sylar had acquired Dale Smither's ability, he experienced excruciating head-aches. He was receiving more sensory information than one was supposed to. In this case, Sylar received such an abundance of information that was constantly changing and being sent back and forth that he had no way to stop the initial onslaught. It was simply too much for his mind to handle all at one time. He was still breathing as Luke moved and gripped his hands to drag him away from the body of the waitress. Luke cursed the entire way back to the stolen pick-up truck, and even more so when he had to try and shove Gabriel inside of it without his lanky form falling back out before he could slam the door shut. Admittedly the first time resulted in Gabriel's leg being crushed between the door and the frame of vehicle but as Luke watched it heal, he knew that it wouldn't even leave a mark for the morning.

Once inside of the vehicle—Luke leaned over and carefully slid Gabriel's arm away from his jacket-pocket. His hand searched the pocket until he grasped the small silver key on a black metal 8-ball keychain. The truck started without incident as he tried to figure out where everything was on it. After he turned on the windshield wipers and not the lights—Luke corrected himself and pulled out while he thanked God that it wasn't a stick-shift.

For a good ten minutes or so, they drove. Luke couldn't help it as he constantly glanced over at his passenger—the man who saved his life and now had him in this world that he couldn't possibly have conceived of weeks ago. The idea that Luke easily could have died in the motel room they met in because of what he could do but he was spared—it was impossible to put into words how that made him feel. He did however know how the sudden siren that started up behind the car made him feel.

"Oh shit…."

There was no other option, Luke pulled off to the side of the road and killed the engine. He shifted in his seat some as he quickly considered his options. But when the final boot-crunch of gravel occurred out of his window—Luke knew what had to be done. The trooper tapped on the window and asked for both license and registration. Luke looked at the man as he tried to emulate the same cool, confident charm that Gabriel used to such effect with anyone they came across.

"Officer, please…my brother had an accident and I'm just trying to get him to the hospital. I'm sorry if I was speeding, but look at him! Look at all that blood, he needs HELP!"

The officer remained calm as he clicked his flashlight on and shone it straight into the cabin of the truck. The beam moved over from Luke himself over to the body of his passenger who with his pale face and bloodied hands…

"Son, you think I don't know bullshit when I hear it? County medical is that way."

He pointed with his thumb in the opposite direction.

"I'm going to need you to step out of the car right now."

Of course Luke knew that the act wouldn't hold up—it was worth a try though. He carefully stepped out of the truck and held his hands up. Palms out as he slowly turned and set his hands behind himself so that his palms faced the highway patrol-man. From the second the first silver cuff latched onto his wrist it started to become soft. When the trooper realized that the handcuff had actually started to melt—it was too late. He screamed as he felt the intense heat—Luke gave it all he had as the man's skin became a dripping residue that poured off his scorched bones.

When his remains were just an unrecognizable mass in semi-liquefied clothes—Luke turned back around and walked for the truck. He took a few breaths to calm himself again then started the engine up again. That wasn't like the only other time he let his ability do such damage—that was an accident. This was premeditated, it was survival. Once more, the truck pulled away and set off down the road.

About twenty minutes later, the truck was idle in the parking lot of the Rest-A-Bit Motel and Gabriel was on the bed. Unfortunately they could only get a room with one bed—which was awkward but he'd just have to adapt to it. Gabriel was still mostly out of it as he lay there, the occasional mutter of a repeated piece of information that his brain picked up on were all that Luke listened to all night as he slept with a pillow in the small chair in the corner of the room. From his grasp of Gabriel's hands earlier, Luke had blood on his. Until he dozed off in the chair—he studied the look of that blood on his own hands. None of it belonged to the highway patrolman—it was all the waitress's blood. He was now fully a part of what Gabriel was doing, and he fell asleep with that thought on his mind as the blood stained the pillow under his head.

Luke was so exhausted that he didn't even hear Sylar's first utterance of Mohinder's name. Flashes of sparks, twisted metal, and the ground racing to meet his falling form played through his head like they had every night since he woke up in the that hospital room a John Doe from a field. When he realized that months of his life were wasted in that stiff bed. All while the man he could have loved surely had died in the crash because Sylar couldn't save him. It would haunt his dreams until he died but making Nathan pay for it would help ease the screams slightly. Or so he hoped.


	4. Collision

At first, the concrete under Mohinder's bare feet was freezing cold but after he had been in the cell for longer than a few hours –it became as warm as flesh itself. After that initial irritation was gone—there only remained the tube in his nostril, pumping his mind full of chemicals that made it difficult to form a thought let alone articulate one by speaking. An hour prior, the tube was removed so he could speak to Senator Petrelli personally. And now he was drugged again, chained down to the chair in the center of the cell. A spreader bar at the back of his arms with a chain bolted to weigh him down. Should he try and use his enhanced strength to wrench himself free—he'll dislocate his shoulder at the very least which is incentive enough to stay put.

Suresh sat there in a dazed state in which he could barely register the sound of the door being unlocked and opened. Heavy footsteps, perhaps intentionally so, thudded on that concrete floor as the door closed softly again. Mohinder didn't care if it was another of Nathan's men—the man had already told him he would be moved from the cell—so he kept his head hanging down, staring at the chains wrapped at his ankles. As the footsteps continued toward him, there was another sound. Something that resembled a 'clanking' metal banging against something. The metal itself didn't belong to anything heavy as the sound was relatively quiet, but the distinct metal noise couldn't be ignored. There seemed to be a rhythm to it—clank, pause, clank, pause—and then just silence as even the boots were silent.

Mohinder suddenly sat bolt upright—tugging painfully on the bolted down bar at his arms. A rush of ice-cold water from out of nowhere splashed against his face and chest—it soaked the olive green t-shirt he'd been detained in and the material clung tightly to his lean chest and stomach like a slimy second skin. He yelped out in shock and then instant pain as he had leaned too far on one side and Suresh could practically feel the joint of his shoulder twisting enough to pop right out. No different than that of a plastic limb of a toy being mishandled by a cruel child who wanted to take it apart piece by piece. He blinked quickly to avoid the water drops twisting around his curls and spinning off into his face. As he slowly lifted his sore neck to see his assailant—he came across the most disconcerting presence in the cell with him.

Suresh's eyes traveled from the heavy black combat boots up the black trousers, belted at the man's rather skinny waist. A black wife-beater the only shirt to speak off and it fit so well to a surprisingly thin form. This man always held such an imposing presence that to see how thin he really was was something of a shock to Mohinder. His brown eyes flitted from the black material to the tufts of dark chest hair poking out from the neck of the shirt. Smooth pale skin then a field of stubble that could be perfectly traced from his neck up his jaw and chin to those smirking pink lips. He watched as they moved to speak.

"Hello Dr. Suresh…or well I suppose you're not really much of that anymore are you? Oh, sorry about the wake-up, but I needed you more coherent …and that shit in your brain is hard to see through without a nice jolt to the system."

Sylar held the emptied bucket in his left hand as the remaining water continued to drip down to the floor. He flung his arm and the resulting clang of the metal against the concrete walls was enough to give both men temporary pause as their ears rang insistently. His boots squeaked against the floor as he moved forward to Suresh, his hand reached out to entangle his fingers into the man's sopping wet strands.

"Now see, this is more like it. This is how it should have been when we saw each other last. I should have opened that door in Pinehearst and you should have been waiting for me just…like…this. But you had your own version of events already in your mind didn't you? Heh. Vengeance…finally you would have vengeance in the name of a man who threw aside his own flesh and blood to guide a lost soul at the detriment to his own life. It's been a while now Mohinder and Chandra's ashes are only spreading more—you should learn to move on."

Sylar was expecting the chain to tense as Mohinder would feel the struggle renew in his blood. It didn't. He roughly slammed Mohinder's head forward as he let go of his hair to start pacing in front of him. Suresh cried out in pain but was silent after that.

"Things don't go the way you want them to, Mohinder. You really need to learn that by now. I'll take great pleasure in teaching you however, in the coming weeks and months as you work for the noble senator…it will be like it's always meant to be. You and I have been destined to work together since we stood across from each other separated only by that screen door in Virginia. Had Pinehearst not fallen apart and I, admittedly, had not become distracted with other pursuits—we already would have been side by side. You and your ever so precious research…makes you quite the commodity everywhere you go. Even if you have relegated such important work to a dust-covered file box stashed underneath your floorboards."

That got Sylar his expected reaction as the chain was tugged upon for a moment.

"But don't worry… Nathan will provide you with everything you require to do your work, Doctor."

Sylar stopped behind Mohinder, his hands moved to rest on the man's shoulders, he felt so warm now as his body heat emanated to combat the cold water on his skin. He leaned down with his lips dangerously close to brushing against the shell of Mohinder's ear as he whispered.

"I've wanted this for so long now Suresh…For so long, I figured my life would be spent alone and now I know with certainty that you were sent to be with me. It's…"

His lips pursed and gently kissed Mohinder's neck as the man flinched underneath his grip. Breathing in his scent while he whispered.

"…our destiny."

Sylar's eyes were closed as he reached down to set one hand on Mohinder's damp chest. Just losing himself in the rhythm of Suresh's quickly beating heart. He almost didn't hear Mohinder's first words since he entered the room.

"…I refused."

His heart beat faster after speaking, Sylar's eyes opened slowly and he pulled away from Suresh as he walked in front of the seated man.

"What…did you just say?"

Mohinder looked up, his normally smooth cultured accent inhibited with the nasal shunt. Now it was Mohinder who had the barest traces of a smirk on his lips.

"I refused…said no…I will not work with him or anyone else…He's having me transported, you won't see me again, _Gabriel_."

Now it was Sylar own heart that raced in his chest, lips parting as he looked down in shock at Mohinder. Quickly he moved forward and grabbed Mohinder by the chin, yanking him forward some as the bar banged into his shoulder blades.

"No you…you don't realize what you've done…You don't realize what you've _done_ Suresh!"

Roughly, he let go of the man and moved to the door. Transported meant the plane. The plane meant certain execution, and for refusing the senator Mohinder would surely be on that list. Unless Sylar could persuade him otherwise. He glanced over his shoulder at Mohinder. The naïve, stubborn man who could bring him the closest thing he ever had to happiness.

"I'm going to fix this."

Sylar turned on his heel, hand out to open the door when he heard Mohinder's voice one more time.

"No…he's going to fix you. He wants to fix all of this … cure the disease. Cure himself. That's what he wanted from me…I won't. I won't tamper with these things, not again."

In the doorway, Sylar had to remind himself to breathe while Suresh spoke. Nathan wanted to take it away—all of it. No, he wasn't going to take away Suresh and he was not going to take away his abilities. Sylar had been down the powerless road far too many times now and it was one that he'd do anything to avoid. He moved through the cell door and it closed loudly behind him as he made his way down the hall and to the office Nathan worked out of when he was in Building 2-6.

After all of the preparation, the ops to capture their intended targets, the detaining process—it all lead to this. Nathan leaned over his desk, checking the flight manifest for flight 195, the private transport plane that would be sending all of their current detainees away to a secure facility off the coast of the Florida Keys. It would have been where they would serve as test subjects but with Suresh's refusal it will be where the first wave is terminated. Nathan wasn't expecting Mohinder to refuse and now had to rethink what about his options regarding the treatment of this special individuals. There were other talented geneticists out there, perhaps he should start contacting a few of them. His locked office door clicked a few times before the door itself swung open. Nathan looked up and saw Sylar standing in the doorway for a moment, his eyes narrowed in determination.

"We need to talk."

Nathan stood up all the way and shrugged slightly as he motioned for his brother to come into the office all the way.

"Thought I gave you the day off. While I appreciate your commitment to the job…you don't need to be here, Sylar."

Sylar's stomach twisted up that much more as he walked forward.

"Give me more time with him. I'll convince him, Nathan."

He moved to meet Sylar's steps as they stood in the center of the room. Nathan's face was completely nonplussed as he looked up at his brother's face.

"I'm going to assume you mean Dr. Suresh and if so, he made his choice. What happens next is something he could have prevented. "

Sylar curled his lip and lifted his hand at his side—no move was yet made against his sibling. His tone of voice was tense but still controlled.

"I _can _convince him…do not do this, Nathan."

Nathan rolled his eyes and turned away, walking back to his desk and he sat down behind it.

"Mohinder is already on the list, he will be moved from his cell, and put on the plane this evening. Look, this isn't about doing you any special favors which—your even being here right now, should be considered a favor from me to you that you still haven't repaid. This is about keeping the public safe and when you keep these people locked up for long periods of time as-is you're only asking for disaster. It's tempting Murphy's law with the potential for escape. It's why Primatech failed. Besides, if he's not even working on his research anymore, I'd venture that Mohinder has outlived his usefulness."

Sylar turned on his heel and stormed out of the office—Nathan's door slammed shut behind him. Nathan sat behind his desk for a moment, calm. Suddenly the side of his face crashed into the back wall thanks to a very skilful telekinetic shove from outside the office door. Nathan's chair was overturned as he remained on his knee, bracing himself from just falling to the floor entirely. It didn't matter to Nathan if his younger brother was unhappy.—there was no special treatment. Except for Peter who was to be loaded onto the plane then discreetly transferred to a private facility. Nathan wasn't the kind of monster to kill his own brother, of course.

Large black vans pulled into the hangar, each contained three prisoners for immediate transport Every ounce of forethought that could be made had been put into practice through a series of precautionary measures. Each detainee wore a device strapped to his or her chest that kept a continuous flow of liquid sedative running from the main device up a nasal insert. The tube led directly to the brain—the idea of which was to keep the prisoner both relatively placated and also keep the total capability of mental concentration down to a minimum. It was much more difficult to access abilities this way. Certain detainees such as 674-TS had on protective gloves just in case the first measures were somehow obstructed. It kept her hands out of play should an attempted escape occur. Thankfully for the guards on shift today, there were only two detainees wearing said gloves during today's transport—it was always nerve-wracking to move them as they could be potentially some of the more dangerous detainees.

All of the guards were in full uniform as protocol dictated while they escorted the detainees together. One of the men then went through the process of tying all of the prisoners to one another to be lead onto the waiting plane. A cluster of bright orange jump-suits that were starkly contrasted by black boots and black hoods as the shackled detainees were urged onto the ramp then the plane itself. It was a bit like ushering a friend out of a bar who'd had too much to drink. A great deal of shuffled footsteps and attempts to veer off the path. Each guard strong-armed their respective detainee into the seats that had been bolted into the cargo hold of the transport plane. Prisoner 674-TS was carefully seated, strapped down into the wrist and ankle restraints then the tube was casually pulled out by the guard who had locked her in. His gloved hand moved down to slip one of her thick insulated gloves off her hand entirely. It was folded and placed in his pocket as he turned on his heel and walked back to his post by the cabin.

Eventually all of the other detainees were secured into their seats and all but three of the guards filed out of the plane. The ramp went up and the engines whirred to life. Prisoner 674-TS slowly began to regain her cognizance. Her senses were dampened by the hood and the earmuffs placed over but her sense of touch could gauge so many things. Her free hand rubbed over the surface of the seat's arm. She suddenly gripped it and sure enough—the arm began to crackle and freeze over. Followed shortly by the wrist restraint as it froze solid, and was easily broken apart. Now her adrenaline surged through her body, she reached and tore the earmuffs off, as well as the hood. Tousled blonde hair and pale blue eyes revealed themselves as Tracy took advantage of the guards having a conversation by the cabin. Soon, she was working on the last restraint on her right ankle—it was then that the tallest of the three guards noticed and alerted the other two agents to the escape attempt. Both quickly ran over, guns raised to tranquilize her but by then, Tracy had freed herself from the chair entirely and began to put up a fight.

During the melee, Prisoner 676-MS managed to tightly grip the hand of a fellow prisoner. The need for contact—for some form of comfort during this terrifying experience of waking up blind and nearly deafened lead to his fingers stretching out and grasping onto his fellow detainee's hand. A slight jolt occurred though neither man was truly aware of it. As Tracy Strauss used her ability to completely freeze one of the guards, the tallest remaining agent quickly moved across the cargo hold and over to 676-MS. He reached out and yanked the hood and earmuffs off the man in swift gesture. Mohinder's curls were damp with sweat from the hood and his eyes were bloodshot from the drug being pumped into him. The agent took a moment to look at that face…before he tore the nasal shunt out of his nostril and set about unlocking the restraints. Suresh mumbled for a few moments before his mental clarity came back to him and he realized the agent who helped him had removed his face mask.

"You're going to be okay Suresh. I'm getting you out of here, I don't care what Nathan wants."

Sylar stood up fully, he gazed at Mohinder's face as he telekinetically opened all of his restraints at once. He held out his hand warily—Mohinder could still refuse to take it. Suresh was shocked that Sylar was doing this—that he was risking his life it seemed to come back for him. It knotted Mohinder's stomach to think that Sylar could be so reckless and all if it was for him. He didn't know what to make of that but he couldn't turn down a way out as he reached for Sylar's waiting hand.

But it was then that the plane began to lift off the ground—wheels retracted back into the plane itself and a sudden jerk sent Sylar and Mohinder down to the floor along with Tracy and the guard restraining her. Every delicate finger on both of her hands was frosted over with quickly spreading ice crystals—she landed at the side of the cargo hold and when her hand touched the side door, it began to freeze over. In less than a few seconds, the pressure of the ice on the door caused the door to snap out of its hinges and fly through the night sky as the gravitational pull sent everyone inside toward the open door. Tracy managed to brace herself well enough but the guard she fought with was swiftly sucked out of the plane.

Sylar desperately tried to grasp for Mohinder's hand as his own body started to slide backwards toward the door. Mohinder's hand was gripped around a suspension bar—an errant restraint flapped in the virtual wind tunnel. Enhanced strength kept Suresh's hold on the bar firm as he found himself straining to grab for Sylar's hand. But it was too late and Mohinder watched as another turbulence patch hit and shook Sylar's body out of the plane and plummeting to the ground below. In that moment, both men were screaming the name of the other. Suresh struggled to hold on as the plane beeped loudly—a variety of emergency signals going off while the plane creaked into a downward spiral.

A blur of orange sped past Mohinder's eye-line and he instinctively reached his free hand out for the detainee that would have been flung from the plane just as Sylar had been. He squinted from the air as it stung at his eyes while it whipped throughout the cargo hold. His stomach flipped and he held even tighter to the young man who was revealed to be a past fare of his and so much more.

"Peter, just hold onto me!"

Both men were slammed up and down as the plane shook into a crash landing. Another few detainees were sucked out—one strapped down in his seat still the entire way out. What was now miles away, Sylar lay still in a field. A branch lodged into the back of his head from the fall through the trees he experienced before hitting the ground. His eyes were milky and blank as he lay there—the last thought he'd had before the branch's impact was that he'd failed and now Mohinder was dead. It was all because of him.

**Present Day**

Faded, white sheets lay in a rumpled pile next to the mattress. Their bodies enrobed each other as they twisted and writhed—sweat-soaked and panting. In the beginning, neither man could have imagined this being where they'd end up in a span of months. So much had changed since that plane hit the ground—since both men managed to survive and fight their way from the wreckage and into a life on the run together. But now as their lips locked together and their tongues twisted, it seemed to Peter at least that this was the path he had to travel in order to find some semblance of happiness. Which was a feeling he felt so close to now. But for Mohinder, this was something so vastly different. It was a catharsis, it was the best way to ease the guilt he carried with him for everything that's happened in his life over the past two years. There was something to be said for being able to provide a connection for Peter to grip onto but for Mohinder he just indulged in how the pain could make him feel cleansed of wrong-doing. Of picking up in his father's footsteps where he did not belong. Of turning himself into a monster, and helping to alienate some of the people closest to him. For being responsible for the death of a man who, there was no questioning, had it coming for all the sins he'd trespassed against all walks of life. Could one simple act of selflessness wash away months of self-centered, wrathful acts? Every night he was haunted by the image of Sylar getting tossed out of that plane.


	5. Contrition

This wasn't the first bare room with white walls that Matt Parkman had occupied. Interrogation rooms look the same any police station you go to. The D.C. department isn't any different than the NYPD or the LAPD rooms—all are made to look intimidating and sparse. The idea is for a suspect to be unnerved by the lack of comfort, of stimulation for the senses—they'll give up and tell you everything you want to know. They lose the control that the person who walks in with their gun securely strapped to their hip clearly holds. But ever since he came home to find her blond hair nestled over closed eyes as blood pooled lazily around her fallen body—Matt hadn't felt in control of a damn thing. He was stopping off for lunch at the apartment as he always does and he knew something was wrong right away when the door was half-open. All of his training and natural intuition churned his stomach with each step he made until he could push the door open and see her laying there—Daphne Millbrook had been brutally murdered.

For what felt like hours but he knew was only twenty, or thirty minutes tops—Matt sat there and replayed the events again and again in his head. How could this have happened…who was responsible…it wasn't Sylar for once. He'd perished in the fire that burned down the Company's Hartsdale facility, and there had been no reports of 'ritualistic' killings ever since. He sighed and rested his head in his hands, muttering that he was sorry over and over again until the door opened. He found now uniformed trooper or detective in a natty suit—no it was a pricey Armani suit instead that he scanned over until his eyes met the face of Senator Nathan Petrelli.

"…What are you doing here? How did you even know where I wa—"

"I heard about Daphne. Matt, I am so sorry…she seemed like a very sweet girl. You're not being charged with anything, I contacted the D.A's office and with the new information they've just received, they know you had nothing do with it." Nathan walked over and sat in the lone chair opposite Matt, leaning forward to place his hand on his shoulder. Parkman furrowed his brow and felt his confusion mount once more.

"What do you mean…did they…did they find the son of a bitch who did this to her?" Such pain laced through the intonation of every syllable he spoke. He was already thinking of the plethora of acts he would like to commit against whoever ripped his current chance at happiness away from him. And with the ability that Parkman possessed, he could make each and every horrible idea come true with a single thought.

"Yes, and you don't need to worry about it because they got him. But you need to listen to me Matt…it was someone like us. A very dangerous man who used his power to hurt a completely innocent person for no reason other than it gave him a thrill to do it. Now, the President is starting to employ certain tactics and special teams to find the most dangerous ones—it's how he got caught, but it's not enough. No one will listen to me about how dangerous these people can be; they think it's perfectly alright to lock them away. But you and I know that some people need to be put down."

Matt stood up suddenly, the chair he was in knocked back in one swift motion. His hands slammed flat onto the metal tabletop, Nathan leaned back as he stayed seated.

"Of course they do! What happened to Daphne shouldn't have happened, ever! How could they think that it's enough to lock up the ones like Sylar? Why can't you convince them they need to, Nathan? You're supposed to be able to help keep us safe with your seat in the Senate…why—"He slowly slumped back down into his seat, tears threatened to drip down his cheeks as he shook to keep them contained.

"—Why her? She was so…we were making a life together—trying to… I thought I was done with all of this." Nathan glanced down, nodding in his best put-on of a friend who understood the conflict of living a normal life while having these abilities. Of knowing that it's not possible to hide, or ignore the World the abilities bring one into. His mind was working, he was keeping up beat for beat with what notes of sympathy to play so that he could breach the offer he would explain to Matt at the best possible time. This had to be it.

"It shouldn't have Matt, but that doesn't change the fact that it did. It's time that we all stop trying to avoid the problems that come with having these powers. Now, I've had to realize that the only way to make my life, and the lives of the people I care about safe, is to remain in the thick of it. I have to take threats head-on because if I don't then who will? It's why I did whatever I could to become involved in these operations—in the new legislature that's being written up. But only so many people will listen to a junior Senator from New York, Matt. I need…to get more people on _our _side. You can help me do that, and we can both make sure that no one else gets hurt except for the people who abuse what they can do to hurt others—people like the 'Sylar's of the World."

Nathan thought about how arguably the worst special in existence was actually his half-brother. When he found out he didn't know quite how to handle it, but then he took a look at his new sibling's rather extensive file. The man was the type of muscle he could use, and all it would take would be convincing him that this could be his purpose. They had recovered Sylar's body from the ashen remains of the Company's Hartsdale facility, and he was kept on a secure base where Nathan would be visiting after he was finished here. Of course, the truth of his lineage was something that only Nathan and his mother really knew the full truth of—it was better for all involved to keep it like that.

In regard to what happened to Daphne well, one has to make certain things happen to get where one needs to be. Ultimately, she was expendable, and it gave Nathan a legitimate reason to deal with a personal matter that sprung up. Eric Doyle was recaptured and given a deal under the table by Nathan himself to kill Daphne in order to receive full amnesty from the designated fate of the other specials. What he didn't know, was that Nathan was once in love with a feisty young blond named Meredith Gordon who Eric himself had a sick obsession with. He terrorized her for nearly two full days at his former theater as his most recent crime against her, and Nathan would make sure the son of a bitch would pay—all while making sure he got Matt on his side from now on.

With blood-shot eyes, Matt slowly looked up again at Nathan. He'd been so lost in his own thoughts of revenge that he never took a moment to listen in to Nathan's plan and, how he was just another piece in it. Everything was clouded with the desire to protect anyone from feeling like he did at that time—disconnected and sick to his stomach every moment he thought of her alive. It's not like how he was always told that thinking of the good things would make him happy—at least not yet. The bitterness of loss pervaded every memory he had about her.

"I'll do it—whatever you need. I'm in."

**Present Day**

"Dude, everyone knows your face…I don't see how this is going to work." Luke turned around from the back of the catering van in his crisp white jacket. He had to sidestep quickly to avoid the van's door as it swung closed. Sylar looked down to his own starched white jacket as he began to button it.

"Something you really should have learned from me by now Luke is the value of hiding in plain sight. I can't even tell you how many people have seen my face before, or after the act. It didn't matter though, as long as I seemed perfectly in-place at the time. "After he finished with the last button, Sylar turned and gave Luke a once-over to make sure he truly did look as in-place as he could. When he thought they both looked ready, they made their way to a smaller building next to where the main ballroom was.

Sylar had picked up on this particular event while toying with his newest ability to pick up wireless signal transmissions, and he thought it the perfect way to really get Nathan's attention. The banquet taking place in the main building's ballroom would be filled with senators, cabinet members, congressman, and their wives. All people responsible for letting Nathan run roughshod over his life, and the lives of others. Sylar cared little for them however with one exception—but he was gone now and so this was an entirely personal affront toward his elder half-brother.

Soon enough they joined a small swarm of fellow white-jacketed catering staff as they began to go about setting up for the dinner. Sylar and Luke did as they were told the entire time so that the former could get a better idea of the building's layout—figure out his best plan of attack. Twenty minutes into this routine and he and Luke found a chance to slip away into a secondary building where Sylar found exactly what he'd been looking for. The small one room building housed all of the controls for the outside sprinkler system. His hand grazed over the timer and with a quick glance of his watch he had it set to have them pop up twenty minutes from that moment.

"You still haven't told me exactly what you're going to do, Gabriel. Or, why you even need me here at all for it." Luke glanced back to the door again then up at the man with a definite air of nervousness in his facial expression—how he held the corner of his lip in, or the wideness of his eyes. Sylar's facial expression softened a little as his hand reached out to rest on Luke's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

"I want President Petrelli's attention, I want him to know that what I've lost is going to be a feeling he and I will share. I want him to know that I'm alive and well and soon he'll be standing right where you are as I look him in the eye and have my revenge for everything I've lost. But for you…this is a golden opportunity Luke. You get to be a part of something—have a real purpose, and when this is all over you'll be a changed person. Not a weak boy but something else entirely, because you'll be feared and respected for the power you wield. Now we're going to go back out and we're going to leave the party entirely. I want you to use your gift to weld the door shut by melting the lock over so there's no keyhole, and the entire plate is fused to the edges of the doorway. Can you do that for me, Luke?"

There was something about that hand on his shoulder that made his thoughts run together and blur into a mess in Luke's mind. Before he could even think twice about what Gabriel had just asked him to do his palms already started to heat up as he stood there—it was like he could practically feel Gabriel's pulse through the fingertips resting on the bone structure of his shoulder. To do anything other than comply seemed impossible as Sylar carefully removed his hand and ushered them both out of the room. It took Luke a matter of minutes to properly fuse the lock solid, and then they were headed toward the side exit to wait for the sprinklers to go off during the party itself.

Twenty minutes later the flickering sounds of lawn sprinklers couldn't be heard through the din of conversation and live music. If they could have heard that insistent flicking of water onto the grass perhaps they would have known what an ominous sign it was. Sylar stood on pavement in front of the lawn a good few yards away from the main building. Luke had been sent inside to trigger the room's indoor sprinkler system that would be nicely set off by a little fire being set in the room itself. At that point it wouldn't matter if he was even seen doing it, because Sylar wouldn't let anyone escape that building while he was standing there. Testing the limits of his telekinesis used to be something that Sylar did for kicks back when his World first changed, and now he would be doing it once more as he began to focus his thoughts on the glass skylight ceiling. Luke was given three minutes to do it and get out of the building before Sylar would act. With six seconds to spare, the young man appeared at Sylar's side sopping wet.

"Okay they're on…now what?" Luke watched as Sylar carefully lifted his hand—fingers enclosed into a fist. His eyes were narrowed to focus on a single point of raised glass before he flicked his fingers open, as he did Luke watched the glass crack and shatter in moments. Shards rained down onto the guests in the ballroom below and when the screams began that's when Sylar raised his other hand. It glowed and crackled with a caustic energy that leapt and spread until a massive blue bolt left his fingertips and moved through the air into the building through the newly-opened ceiling. His other hand now used electrokinesis to light the drenched lawn on fire to effectively trap his victims inside of the building.

Never in Luke's life could he have imagined the sounds that came from the ballroom that night. Yeah he'd used his power on someone, twice now, but the cacophony of shrill screams of agony and horror were so visceral in that moment. He turned and looked at Sylar as the man continued to send bolt after bolt into the building causing one flare up after another as the water ignited from the electrical current. There was not a hint of joy or the slightest smirk of sadistic glee in his eyes as he watched the building begin to blaze on the outside as well. His gaze was hollow while he thought about Mohinder's own scream, it was the last thing he ever heard him do was scream. After a few minutes of sending blasts to the building to add to the fire, he turned and nodded to Luke that they should leave.

Miles away, Peter paced in front of the door of the house he and Suresh had effectively been squatting in under assumed names. It was a modest one-story with a storm cellar that was outside of town enough to keep their lives as private as possible. However, that was soon to change as the last person he'd had contact with before his hand caressed Mohinder's shoulder in the midst of their late-night lovemaking was his mother earlier that day. Her power absorbed into his skin and when he fell asleep during the evening, he had a dream of what was to come. If it came true it would be in the next few minutes, Peter was understandably tense as he kept an eye on the door.

"He may not even come, Peter. Your dreams are not always literal…this could be one of those times. We should just go back to bed and get some sleep." Mohinder rubbed his eyes with one hand as the other braced his body against the side wall of the entryway. Ever since Peter told him who they were expecting, his mood turned sour in moments. But he had to try and keep it contained so that he wouldn't upset Peter again.

"I have no idea why he would even show his face around here or why your mother would have even told him where we were living. After all he's done to you—to us? The hunting of his own kind and now he wants to talk to you as though nothing has happened? We shouldn't even let him inside." Well keeping his feelings towards Peter's brother was a much more difficult endeavor than Mohinder had anticipated.

"Mohinder, I'm not having this argument. I understand what he's done to us, to everyone like us but my mother made it sound like he's in over his head. Yeah, he's been in over his head from the start but now he actually knows it. I know you've given up on him but I ca—"

"You can't. I know I've heard it a thousand times before, Peter. But what you need to realize is that if you continue to let him in then one day he'll take everything you have left. Or maybe it will just be gone."

Before he could ask what that was supposed to mean, there was a hesitant series of knocks on their front door. Peter gave Mohinder a look then walked to the door, opening it up to reveal the image of his brother in a black Ralph Lauren tuxedo with his hair ruffled in the way that only a recent flight could have accomplished. Peter cocked his head to the side as his hand moved through his own hair to push his bangs back from his eye.

"So you're using your ability again."

Nathan glanced at Peter and realized that he wasn't surprised at all by his sudden appearance on his front door. To the Petrelli men that could mean only one thing.

"How's Ma doing?"

Peter moved aside to allow Nathan entrance into the house as Mohinder quietly glowered against the wall still. He shut the door after him but not before he gave a quick glance around the yard to look for anyone Nathan may have brought with him. Thankfully, he came alone.

"She's okay…I can't see dreams anymore though, Nathan, so if you came to ask me about something then you can just go find her." He crossed his arms over his simple white t-shirt as he watched Nathan move deeper within the house. Inside of the living room they had a small TV on a wooden stand against the back wall. When Nathan reached it, he turned it on without a word and scanned to a news channel—he wouldn't have had to it was all over every channel. Peter walked in with Mohinder behind him as Nathan turned up the volume on the news report.

All three watched as a charred building was hosed down, rescue teams of medical personnel ran in and out, and the shocked commentary of the reporter heading the segment narrated the chaos. Peter narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on what was going on then recognized the room as a ballroom that he'd been to before a very long time ago when he was a teenager. It was some stupid party his parents dragged him off to as always and he sulked at the entire time until they finally went home after Angela had had too much to drink. She tended to get a little too honest for their father's taste at that point and he hated being embarrassed. It all came together for him after that—why Nathan was standing there in a designer tuxedo and why he chose to fly instead of a more conventional means of getting around. Most of all, why the President had zero security with him on any venture.

"I was supposed to be there…if I hadn't picked up the phone when Ma called me…I would have been." Nathan seemed genuinely horrified at not only the concept of his own narrowly avoided demise, but also for all of the victims who were there and who suffered a terrible fate. Peter moved and turned the TV off again before he faced his older brother.

"Nathan, what happened? How could this…who did it?" Mohinder moved over, closer to Peter now as he had a feeling in his stomach that he couldn't quite describe or explain. Nathan worried his lip as he run a hand through his fluffed up hair, trying to smooth it. As soon as he heard the circumstances surrounding the tragedy, he knew.

"They said that the people inside were locked in when the sprinklers went off—inside and out. I was sent a video file that was from the security footage…you can see blue streaks of lightning hitting the sides and through the ceiling of the building. Pete, there wasn't a cloud in the sky last night. I'm being targeted by someone and it's time I admit that I need you to help me." Mohinder couldn't help a short, derisive breath as he scoffed at Nathan. His eyes practically rolled as he moved toward the man in a steadily growing rage.

"Oh…Now you need his help, so you want Peter to drop everything and fend off whoever is attacking you, deservedly, I might add. For what you did to countless innocent people and to myself and your own brother—now you think you can pay the both of us a cheap, lip-service apology and everything will be forgotten? We were hunted like animals, restrained, and sent off to be locked away for God knows how long all in the name of your 'doing the right thing'. We stood there next to each other after your father had you convinced that the World was going to be better off with _more _people having abilities. But as soon as that went South, you turned your back and decided that we were the ones to blame so you lashed out. Honestly, Nathan I have every urge to throw you across this room right now and allow you to experience just some of the pain that you've caused so read—"

Peter suddenly moved in between them as his hand braced against Mohinder's chest.

"Mohinder…calm down, please. A lot of people died last night and that means there's someone out there who's incredibly dangerous—not just to Nathan but to everyone. Even if he made a few mistakes by listening to our father." Nathan went from retorting to Mohinder to turning and glancing at his brother.

"The only way I ever saw how truly dangerous these powers could be was because I followed what dad said. The people he had around him were glorified thugs, and God only knows how many more people like that were out there trying to harm the population at large. All I did was try and get this situation contained before it spiraled out of control." As soon as he finished speaking, Mohinder side-stepped Peter and his arm shot out to grip onto Nathan's jacket. He shoved him back against the wall and held him there as Peter moved to try and break Mohinder's hold on his brother.

"This situation… you are _part_ of this Nathan, whether or not you want to be!" Nathan winced and stayed still as he looked right into Mohinder's eyes.

"And it wasn't a choice, you made a choice to be the way you are now, Mohinder. You chose to mess around with your DNA and go against what's natural. We're not the next step of evolution, we're a mistake." Nathan took a moment to collect his thoughts as he shifted his focus from Mohinder to his brother again.

"Peter…it was Sylar who attacked and killed all of those people last night, he's alive. You've always been the only one who could come close to stopping him. If he's going after me we can do something public, hold a press conference and lure him there." The hand on his jacket loosened almost immediately after he said the word 'alive'. Mohinder took a few steps back as if he'd just been swiftly punched in the stomach. The flashes of that night—the screams, watching Sylar's pale hand scramble helplessly for his own before he was thrown from the falling plane. All this time, he'd believed he was dead; it had been two years since the crash.

Peter was also shocked as he realized that the man who brazenly called him 'brother' was not only alive, but targeting his only true sibling. While Nathan made his share of mistakes, it was true—he couldn't deny him help when he sought it against that particular man. One of Peter's great follies was the inability to walk away from that fight now that it had resumed once more. Not to mention he couldn't stand the way Suresh's eyes yearned to see the killer again. Even after all this time, he carried that torch.

"Nathan, how did he even survive? Where has he been all this time?" It was a long story for Nathan to tell and fortunately, he didn't have to. At some point during the altercation, Angela Petrelli had entered their house without formal invitation. She stood behind Peter, just to the left of his line of peripheral sight, dressed in a charcoal gray pea-coat.

"I believe…that I can illuminate all three of you about that situation. Gabriel has no recollection of working for you, Nathan. He does remember, however, that he's your brother. I had hoped that would be enough when he finally woke up to keep him from attacking you, but apparently I was mistaken. Nearly two years ago, I had an old friend pay a visit to a hospital in Rhode Island."


End file.
